Chapter 6

The sun is bright today, Rhaenyra realizes wistfully, lending its amber brilliance to the decorative trees and bushes of the inner ward's garden. The courtyard itself is largely empty of life, save for the birds and other gifts of nature. She briefly remembers a time when others used to dwell here. Alicent Hightower has loved this place much like she does the godswood. Throughout her own early youth, she's eschewed coming here—to traverse these very pathways laid out by cobblestone and dirt. The gardens, in one of her uncle's mystical tales, are a haunted place . . . and sometimes when the blue moon is full, casting its strange, pale light upon the garden, ethereal creatures and other vagaries are said to lurk here.

Rhaenyra wants to feel well as she passes through this now-peaceful place, but it's no use. And she knows exactly why she is so unhappy to be here: the warmth of home is fading. Things feel colder now—detached even. This place is beginning to feel like a dungeon, she thinks. Though, upon deep reflection, such feelings of comfort were fallacious.

In another, more pragmatic sense, they have been the innocent dreams of a child.

She looks over her shoulder briefly to see Ser Erryk stalking silently in his own protective way. His grim profile tells all. Rhaenyra feels herself frown to match him. They find themselves on a path to the council chambers for a meeting of sorts.

Nigh over a fortnight passed since the incident in Oldtown, and things have suddenly become very dire. In their last meeting, Lord Beesbury made it very clear the situation in the Reach has deteriorated . . . and expectedly so, she muses. Shrewd as the Hightowers are, they've used their regional advantage to send swift raven south to the Arbor, and northeast to Highgarden. Cloaked behind their devotion to the Faith and chivalry, it didn't take long for their treacherous falsehoods to spread all throughout the Reach, to even the mortar and stone halls of the stormlands.

And their record of events tells a different tale, or so she hears. To hundreds of knights, fishermen, courtiers, and noblemen alike, she and Daemon are little more than common assassins. No, it is said to be far more terrible than that, she muses.

Fell deeds by raven describe an even stranger story: Daemon Targaryen, self-proclaimed regent, tyrant, and kinslayer, is said to have come upon Oldtown with his vile dragon at the crack of sundown. Never making an offer in honourable word of his imminent arrival, he'd been indiscriminate in his doings, merciless even. Enraged and made to be wrathful by their family feud, he spit his dragonfires upon the tower itself, with women and children, knight and lord, burning all the same. To try and offer their side, the Crown countered with ravens of their own, but Matthos Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, is not to be easily swayed. She only hears rumours, but they say his most furious retort has been heard from the edges of Sunspear to the very Wall itself. His greatest ire has been invoked by the making of such a cowardly attack under his rule. Matthos is enraged, they say. "King Jaehaerys had been wise, gifted with great foresight and reason," he says to his maester. "The Iron Throne shan't pass to any woman, of dragonsblood or not. The sordid sacking of Hightower only serves to attest this sentiment." . . . And so, he has summoned all the banners of the Reach to Highgarden immediately for dire council.

They even say Qoren Martell, Prince of Dorne, is worried himself, sending the blackest of ravens from his own unkindness to Highgarden, to make offer of his many concerns about the destabilization of the realm.

Such absurdities can't possibly be true, she thinks. Rhaenyra's frown deepens. This, she decides, is altogether the lesser of her two worries.

Her dearest prince has been rendered bedridden for well-nigh a week since their return. Amidst the battle of Hightower, he suffered some invisible harm, Grand Maester Gerardys says, and there is scant in the way of mending such things. It could've been from the noxious fumes of the smouldering tower, or mayhaps he's been set upon by some dark magic—cursed even. Little could they do for him, as he writhed in bed and spoke his orders harshly through clenched teeth.

He tries so hard to keep a strong face in her presence, she realizes, even going so far to refuse the maester's herbal teas they've prepared. Maester Gerardys says it would aid him in comfort and allow him to rest easily, but Daemon would have no part of it. Instead, he stays awake, having his small council convene in his own bedchambers adjacent to hers. No longer does he make quarters in the Tower of the Hand, and it brings her great comfort for him to be so close.

Rhaenyra halts briefly as she lifts her drooped head to see two large doors. She sighs gently, and then pushes them open to stride into the council chambers, well preoccupied by numerous ordeals she hasn't the energy to worry about. Ser Erryk bellows her titles, and she finds three members of the small council rise immediately to greet her.

"Your Grace," Lord Beesbury says respectfully. He bows briefly and turns to smile at his fellows who offer respect of their own. Chandeliers above flicker and play upon his old features to highlight his long, grey brows and weathered face.

Rhaenyra, aware she is being studied by everyone in the room, flicks her hand. "The small council is in session," she says curtly. "You may all be seated." Her poulaines click as she takes careful steps to find her own seat at the far end of the table. She is wearing a comfortable silk shift, bright-gold like Syrax herself, and with a long, billowing cape to drag along the carpeted floor. Her chair is soundless as she pulls it out, sitting to lean comfortably and look upon them all with a mixture of frustration and contempt.

An odd silence. She then clears her throat, saying, "Pray tell, why have we established a meeting of the small council without the presence of my regent, Prince Daemon? What business must we discuss without him?"

There is wine, she sees, on the table and already poured fresh. There is food as well, with various meats and cheeses plated sparingly to enjoy. Rhaenyra finds herself noticeably parched, so she takes a glass to sip from it.

The remaining men about the table abstain themselves from drink. She sees Larys Strong turn his head to make eye contact. "If it pleases Your Grace," he says cordially. His voice is devoid of any identifiable emotion. "His Grace is resting, and I bid you urgent news about my lord father."

Rhaenyra nods briefly. "Yes, as we've discussed in past council. But do go on."

He continues, saying, "There has been news of discord in the riverlands. We've word Lord Grover Tully responded less than savoury to the burning of Hightower. Even though a fortnight ago he, along with his grandson, swore allegiances anew to your rule, the man is from a bygone age—his old mind made fickle by time. As a preventive measure, my father has immediately taken to the riverlands by horse-drawn carriage, setting out this morning before the rising of first light. Even though I do not know when he should return, I do know his intended destinations."

Rhaenyra frowns at this worrisome news. She sips another taste of her wine, and then asks, "What is Lord Strong's immediate course of action, then?"

She sees Larys smile briefly. It is out of character, and strange looking. He clears his own throat, saying, "My lord father makes first for Darry, and then by way of the kingsroad to Seagard. Afterwards, he is to travel south to Raventree, Wayfarer's Rest, and then finally Acorn Hall. He will then make rest at our seat and home, Harrenhal. Such a progress could take weeks—possibly months, but it's in our best interest to gain immediate support of the riverlords and establish clear channels betwixt the North and the Eyrie. The unyielding backing of Houses Darry, Mallister, Blackwood, Vance and Smallwood are paramount in this venture. The other lords of the Trident will hopefully yield their full support behind your true and rightful rule."

Lyman touches a worried hand to his chin. He then nods his head in agreement, saying, "Yes, Houses Mooton and Piper warrant pertinent strategic holdings in the riverlands. The citadel of Pinkmaiden provides watchtower over both the Reach and the westerlands. However, Grover Tully, Lord Paramount of the Trident, may not be so easily swayed. I remember too well his very vocal opinion at the Great Council. He is very much a proponent for a male claimant to the Iron Throne, that one. And now in his declining years, he has only grown more stubborn in his beliefs."

"Oh, by the Faith! What of my maidenhood?" Rhaenyra asks, crossing her arms frustratingly. "If anything, my maidenly temperament would make myself a gentler ruler."

"The gods may see it that way," Lord Corlys responds, "but the common folk and numerous lords who govern them do not." His voice is even, and his words curt. He's been quiet until now.

Rhaenyra takes another sip of the amber wine. The sweetness calms her. With a heavy sigh, she asks, "Why must I be subjugated by such petty prejudices?"

Her small council remains quiet. She sees Larys shift in his seat and avert his gaze. Lilac eyes narrow pointedly as her finger taps the table nervously.

A loud creak. Large doors swing open. A deep, boisterous voice raises through the chambers, Ser Stefon Darklyn's, she realizes. Her heart stops, she hears: "Prince Regent Daemon of the House Targaryen, Lord of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea, Hand of the Queen and Protector of the Realm!"

Time slows harshly as she sees him trod into the council chambers. Ser Stefon turns and bows deeply as he passes by. Ser Erryk follows suit, and so does Ser Harrold. Her small council too, rises from their chairs to bow their heads in a show of respect. He's walking unaided, she sees, though barring the former energy he normally displayed. The dragon is weakened, she thinks.

The room is so quiet. All she hears is her prince's carefully placed footsteps. Then, a deep, haggard breath. "I haven't realized," he says. His voice is rugged, and unbeautiful like it normally is. She can hear him gasp for breath between words. "Was I to assume the small council has begun to gather in these very chambers once again?"

Her small council look at each other accusingly, wondering who to point blame. Larys then turns his head, says, "If it pleases Your Grace, we ha—"

"Hold your tongue, Master of Whisperers," Daemon says sternly. He is irritable, she sees. "I have little patience for your wit today, and I need little answer for such a question."

"Your Grace," Larys says submissively, bowing his head deeply.

His panicked voice elicits a snicker from the prince. "Very good!" Daemon replies, amusedly so, she notes. Slow to move, he finally finds his chair next to her own and sits down. As he leans comfortably into it, the other standing council members retake their own seats to patiently await his order.

Daemon spies a lonesome wine glass nearby and immediately takes it. After one big gulp, he says, "It is as Ser Stefon said. I am indeed your regent. Do tell, how can a small council convene without its regent present? Does Her Grace have an explanation? I would rather not hear any opinion from the undesirables today."

She turns to meet his accusing glare. Her own silver brows furrow, saying, "Do not think ill of them, Uncle. We believed you to be resting in your quarters, nothing more."

The regent rolls his eyes. "Is that so?" he asks, mockingly so. "Well, evidently there has been some mistake. Perhaps you've misheard . . . because here I sit well enough for meaningful conversation."

She can tell he's trying his hardest to appear well, but she knows better. He's wearing his tough, hardened face as a mask, and it's slipping. Every syllable is new pain for him, she sees this—hears it tinged even on the very voice of his lips. "Let's not waste any time then," she says, almost too quietly. She hasn't meant to whisper. "We were discussing matters of the riverlands and the Reach. Lord Strong has taken the kingsroad for a progress."

Daemon sighs heavily and looks to Lyman, saying, "How are things fairing in the Rea—"

Rhaenyra grimaces at the sound. His enquire is silenced by a fit of coughing. He covers his mouth, then takes another wine glass in his hand, sipping from it to assuage his faceless attacker. Her prince is in considerable pain, she sees. It is useless to hide it, the cold-sweat near his temples evidence of his strain, and his usually confidant, vibrant eyes streaked red and black underneath.

She feels sad suddenly. An impression of dread overtakes her, looking at her dearest prince, feeling the brooding eye of the small council and darkening atmosphere. Rhaenyra knows just how much she's relied on this man for nigh her entire life. From as long as she can remember he's been there, supporting her—strengthening her very will without question. It is a torment, a physical torture to see him in such a weakened state. He's sacrificed much, fought wars for the Crown—for her even. And now, I must fight for him, she thinks.

After taking another sip of amber wine, Daemon collects himself. He then looks upon the small council, saying, "As I was asking . . . How goes our little situation in the Reach?"

"The Hightowers stoke rebellion amidst the lords of the Trident," Lyman replies. His voice is grave, and scarily serious in tone.

Daemon scowls, saying, "Not even a fortnight's passed since Lord Grover swore allegiance to Her Grace. You mean to tell me the old man shirks such an oath?"

Maester Gerardys offers his voice and insight. "He doesn't readily break oaths, but we must extinguish these flames of treason, not fan them to burn further."

"Very well," the regent replies.

If Daemon ever spoke meekly, he has just done so. Rhaenyra can only feel appalled by such a horrible sound. She sees her councilmen shift about their chairs uncomfortably, and then Lyman swallows hard to say, "Furthermore, we know Lord Ormund and his kin have taken refuge in the Citadel. Grand Maester Gerardys has so graciously offered this information. Word also tells House Oakheart sent esteemed envoy of their own to Oldtown so they may break bread with the Hightowers, while their liege lord makes for Highgarden. One can only suspect where their true allegiances lie, and it seems we have little in the way of ally in the Reach. My grandson, Alan, bids me further ill news: Matthos Tyrell has beckoned our House and many others to his citadel to formulate an official response to Her Grace's rule. In my stead, I have sent Alan to represent House Beesbury, so I may continue in my most important duties here."

Daemon sits up in his chair. "Damned is this news you share," he says darkly. "Have you nothing in our favour to report?"

"I have, Your Grace," Lyman replies. He smiles, saying, "Houses Tarly and Rowan have declared in secret for Her Grace, the queen. Swift raven with parchment stamped red and green arrived yesterday evening bearing this joyous news. And I do believe other houses will follow suit once their true allegiances are made to be public."

"This is indeed good tidings," Daemon says. He lets a smirk form in the corner of his mouth. "And we must push out immediately ravens to all houses, minor or not. The treachery of the Hightowers must not go unheard. They use the untrue words of my dead brother to legitimize his son for rule. They desire only to see the blood of their House on the Iron Throne."

Rhaenyra feels her fists tighten. "My father never wished for such a thing. Even as he circled death, ne'er did he err in his convictions. This includes his proclamation of mine own right to rule. I was made Princess of Dragonstone before all gods and men. Surely, they must honour past oaths taken?"

She sees Daemon frown, then. "Only a handful of lords swore oaths of fealty to you," he says. "And such oaths so easily made are just as easily broken."

There is a brief silence after that thought. Then, Rhaenyra turns her gaze to him. Lilac eyes meet. "What must we do, then?" she asks.

Daemon pauses for a moment, then says, "We have been made to look ill upon. The scheming greens know no bounds in their lust for your birthright. Alliances must be forged, oaths must be renewed—we must make for the North! House Stark can raise a host of thirty-thousand men given time for preparation, and their loyalty is unquestioned."

Lilac eyes widen. Gasps are heard around the table. Maester Gerardys voice cuts through, saying, "Your Grace, you are not well enough to ride upon the skies. I must beseech you this token of worry. It is paramount you rest further and regain your fullest strength."

Her prince smiles. "Winter is upon us," Daemon says flatly. He twirls a nearly empty wine glass in his left hand. "It could take months to progress through snow by horse-drawn carriage and escort. Time is now far too important to waste. We will take our dragons to Winterfell to confer with the Starks; this is unnegotiable."

Rhaenyra stays silent. She knows there is no use in offering her opinion. Though she worries for him greatly, her prince is a proud man, unyielding even in the face of death.

Lord Beesbury decides to interject. "If I may," he says, speaking evenly. "As half-brother to King Jaehaerys, Boremund Baratheon has strong blood-ties to Her Grace's line. It is well known the lord also gave his support to Lady Rhaenys at the Great Council. Her Grace's womanhood should matter little to the man, and his allegiance is most beneficial. There are a great many banners sworn to the Lord of Storm's End, and for that he is a valuable friend—and a terrible foe."

Daemon finishes another glass, raises his voice to say, "And it would be unwise to assume House Baratheon's allegiance. They are very much proud. Send a raven if you must . . . but bid them word of our eventual royal progress to Storm's End. We owe them a lord's respect."

The Lord of Honeyholt nods firmly.

She then sees her prince turn to her, lilac eyes stern and face contorted in pain. He looks haggard, weighed down by his hidden illness. "Have you anything to add, Your Grace?" he asks her plainly.

Her eyes blink. She hasn't been thinking of what to discuss, she realizes. She ponders this for a moment, then says, almost abruptly:

"I haven't an heir."

It is a short statement. Shorter than she's imagined herself saying it in her head. Her small council sit silently, and Daemon too as he looks upon her deep in his own thought. They're perplexed, she sees. And Daemon too. He's twirling his index finger around the smooth edges of his wineglass, ruminating over something very deeply.

His finger stops. "Our queen is right," he then says. "Her Grace's half-brother and half-sister have been spirited away. They cannot be made heir apparent, certainly not in this unruly climate."

She hears him cough violently, sees it as he buries his face in the palm of his hand. He needs rest, she realizes. This strange meeting has already gone on for far too long. Rhaenyra's eyes narrow determinedly. She knows what she truly wants to say. I am Queen Rhaenyra, and I can say anything, she thinks.

And said little queen stands, hands made to be fists tight against her sides, voice raising to signal command. "I have decided to name Prince Daemon Targaryen as my heir! And I wish for our royal union in marriage to be made within a fortnight!"

A wine glass shatters against the floor. Then silence.

The prince in question was taking a drink as she uttered those very words.

Rhaenyra cocks her head. Lilac eyes gaze expressively at her. He seems shocked, though he shouldn't be. She can't know his very thoughts in that moment, as she stands tall and proud having confessed her most guarded and forbidden secret.

Larys Strong is the first to object. "Your Grace, surely that is a jest . . ." He looks disturbed by her admission, she sees.

"It isn't," she replies meekly.

And then another voice: "Those are hasty words, Your Grace," she hears Lyman say.

Lord Corlys stands from his seat. He is furious. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but this . . . this is an outrage!" He is anything but his normally calm self. She can see that drawn in the wrinkles and wear on his enraged face. "My firstborn and only son, Laenor, has been ever expectant of your hand. Even your late father expressed his intent to join our houses once more!"

"I will not waver in my convictions," Rhaenyra says sternly. She is gripping the table now for support. She feels weak under the harsh gaze of these various men. "I am your queen, and the regent is in agreement with me. He has pledged himself wholly to myself—made vows to the very gods themselves. I must follow my heart in this matter!"

Maester Gerardys stays silent through the debacle. Lyman turns to look at Daemon now. "Is this true, Your Grace? You've sworn before the Faith to take the queen's hand in marriage?"

Her prince, who has been both still and hushed since her admission, blinks his eyes rapidly. He then gazes at Lord Beesbury. For a moment, the two men hold stares with one another, and then Daemon sighs deeply. "Yes, it is true . . ." he admits finally.

"And do you stand by such vows?"

Rhaenyra's lilac eyes widen. Daemon does not reply.

Lord Corlys slams his fists on the table. "I've heard enough of this absurdity!" he exclaims.

In mere seconds does it take for the Sea Snake to barge completely out of the room. Lyman says nothing as the Master of Ships departs, just looks carefully at Daemon, whom, by all accounts, seems too tired to care further. Larys has since retired himself mentally from the small council, his peculiar face finding great interest in the palm of his hand.

Maester Gerardys finally stirs, clasping both hands in front of him and clearing his throat. "Mayhaps Her Grace is too young to be wed?" he asks calmly. "Such a union, joyous as it may be, could be posed to the common folk as a conundrum of sorts. Even the various lords of the realm may share similar concerns, affecting the legitimacy of Her Grace's rule."

Rhaenyra feels sick. Little in the way of support is she receiving, even from her most trusted and close-confidants. She grits her teeth, saying, "I do not care! The lords paid little mind when King Jaehaerys took Queen Alysanne to wife. Why should I be treated any differently?"

The maester scratches the scruff of his chin. "Indeed, their union had been celebrated. However, the difference, though minute, is Jaehaerys was king when he wed Lady Alysanne, and their ages were not very far apart. And even if you are to wed, the realm may soon call for one, Prince Daemon Targaryen, to ascend the throne in place of his younger wife. Further complicating this matter is His Grace's relation to King Viserys. The matter of succession would be considered settled and done if he were to sit the Iron Throne. Potential war could be averted—unfortunate bloodshed, which in the eyes of the realm, may seem altogether trivial under such circumstances."

Rhaenyra will not relent. "A Golden Wedding of our own would unite the realm," she says desperately. "There will be tourneys, great feasts, and bountiful festivities in the very streets of King's Landing! Can't you see it?"

She has grown unknowingly loud.

"Please, Rhaenyra," Daemon whispers. "Sit your chair and calm yourself . . ."

"Your Grace, if you would give me more time to study the matter . . ."

She feels hot. Her cheeks burn. Rhaenyra, languishing inside, almost instinctively screams.

"There is no time!"

And moments later she finds herself furious, storming through the courtyard and trampling cobblestone underfoot.

More than anything else, she knows such notions of love—of comfort—are a child's musings on life. Her better half understands that perfectly, and yet she still doesn't care.

It isn't long until she finds herself alone in her royal bedchambers again. So, she lays there, curling up pitifully like a babe on a couch, holding herself tightly, desperate for any shred of comfort.

And she's whimpering now, and all else which comes with such sorrows.

As he came upon the bedchamber and saw the White Cloaks posted outside her door, Daemon silently cursed under his breath. Now late of hour, he'd little business here, especially in consideration of the current political climate. Against his common sense, he'd been deep in his cups again. Hell, he could've drunk the entirety of the Arbor dry tonight. By some miracle, his long night had led him to this very spot, and he knew why. He struggled to understand his own motives sometimes, and this present urge had been no different. Someday, he thought morbidly, he was going to pay dearly for such foul impulses—perhaps even with his own life.

On that thought he almost did turn back, but he'd already reached a point of no return. The wall torches lining the corridor lit his very approach, and he realized the knights outside were watching him carefully. If he could ever feel ashamed by his own doings, he surprisingly had. They were statuesque in their demeanour, made to render him feeble as he was studied under their steady gaze. And he was weak now, even scaling the grand staircase of the holdfast an all too arduous task by itself.

And with that despairing thought, Daemon stepped forward. "Step aside," he said to them as best he could. "I have important and urgent business with the queen."

Having been seen—and now heard—the regent was not about to turn on his heel and retreat in cowardice. He was strong in his judgement, even in his now weakened state. Daemon thought he appeared as much, with head held high and pale-silver hair gleaming. He offered his toughest, standing upright as he was, and left hand balled to make a fist on the silver pommel of Dark Sister. And he challenged them like that with his resolute gaze, urging them to offer quick reply.

Ser Erryk bowed his head in respect. "The queen has been resting for some time, Your Grace," he then said.

"And what of it?" Daemon asked harshly. He could smell the fruitiness of wine on his own breath. Perhaps, they'd smelt it as well. For a moment after there was silence. "I'll not say it again, good ser." His steady voice darkened with his warning.

The White Cloak frowned, and then lowered his gaze. "As Your Grace commands," he said, almost reluctantly. He then turned to unlock the large doors before opening them carefully.

Daemon sighed. This was pretty much the tepid response he'd expected from them. Indeed, they'd let their affair go on without bother for quite some time. But now, their unquestioning aiding of it had more or less come to light. Such a thing probably stained the pearly whites of their cloaks, he assumed. Truthfully enough, it hadn't been their business to know whom their queen pined after—only to serve her, give their life for her if need be. And such a commitment might have to be honoured in the not-so-distant future, he thought despairingly. Their oaths will be tested, he declared inwardly, and mine own as well.

With such a ghastly picture painted upon his blotched canvass of a mind, he invited himself in. As the doors closed behind him, he took careful steps until he found himself in the centre of the room. There, he stood motionless, contemplating the quietude of the darkened chamber. The tall, red curtains of the high windows were shuttered, letting very little of the moon's light to spill in. Nary a candle had been lit, and visibility had been little.

He spied a lone, extinguished candle sitting upon the weirwood table, and a metallic tinderbox next to it. Taking the thing in hand, he opened it to remove the flint. Drawing his dagger, he cracked the flint against it, shooting an eager spark into the box. He touched a piece of tinder to the reddish ember, and it went up immediately in flames. After feeding the sleeping candle with it, a luminous glow grew to reveal his figurative headache resting innocently on the couch.

There was a great deal to be said as he looked upon her peaceful, sleeping form. He approached carefully, mindful in his doings as to not wake the young, resting she-dragon. Daemon felt a smile creep up from the corners of his mouth. The orangish candlelight played brightly on her pale-silver hair. And it was almost mesmerizing to look upon her, serene and undisturbed as she was.

After sitting softly next to her, he raised a gentle finger to push her platinum-coloured bangs away. He needed to see the entirety of her beauty. And Daemon felt indecent in that moment, gazing down at her small, indisposed self with a distant longing. She was dressed down to her nightgown already, and just looked vulnerable in such private attire. Oh, how he wanted to do terrible things to her, against his own better judgement. He'd already gone so far already; why not just a little more?

His hand slid daringly from her cheek, down her side to rest on her hips. The hypnotic rise and fall of her chest stirred him, and the gentle rhythmic breathing through her little nose pulled him into a trance. He'd stayed there in silence, devoid of all movement—of life even. Just listened to her small, even gasps for air.

He'd suddenly forgotten why he came here. What innocuous reason could he have offered her for being here? Intruding upon her in such a fashion? The irony of it all, was he knew she'd desired such things—desired him to sneak away to her sleeping quarters in the shadow of the night. She wanted much more, he knew, and for that very reason, the passionate flames in his lilac eyes flickered brighter still.

That had been tonight's challenge, he thought. He'd needed every ounce of his control, both in body and mind, to prevent himself from allowing his carnal desire to lead him astray.

A momentarily loss of composure. His hand flexed. Rhaenyra stirred, he saw.

Lilac eyes blinked, long lashes fluttering questioningly. "Daemon . . .?" she murmured.

"You are awake," Daemon said matter-of-factly. "This is not a dream as you think it is."

The two looked quietly at one another, and then Rhaenyra sat up a little bit. With a lazy left hand, she rubbed the sleep from her eyes. "How long have I been abed?" she asked. "I fear I've lost track of the day." Her voice was soft and hushed.

Daemon felt himself smile. "The hour is well past midnight," he said evenly. "The Red Keep slumbers just as you have, my dearest queen."

Rhaenyra looked strangely at him then. With an eyebrow raised, she said, "And why have you come into these chambers so late in the night? Having trouble sleeping again?"

He cleared his throat. It was painful. "Mayhaps," he then said.

"Very well then," she replied briefly. "Do you wish to discuss something important?"

It was mildly said, but the prince knew better. He could see the playfulness in the dim glow of her lilac pools. It was there he'd found himself drawn to, enthralled by such glittering jewels. He then suddenly forgot to respond, leaving them in uncomfortable silence.

"Daemon?"

His name was spoken by the gentlest voice. "Yes?" he replied.

"Will you walk with me in the godswood?"

"That sounds pleasant . . ."

He had heard himself drawl those words out. Such a voice sounded foreign, much unlike his own. He had fallen for her once again, he realized.

Rhaenyra got up then. "Let me put on something warmer," she said. Daemon cocked his head to look at her out the corner of his eye. She'd thrown on a wool cover over her silk gown, which was by all accounts, thin and undesirable for any outing in the cool autumn night.

Daemon stood up from the couch and gazed longingly at her. He felt too many emotions now to conduct himself properly.

She ignored that, made circles to display herself. "How do I look?" she asked playfully.

"Just wonderful," he admitted.

He could see her pause in that moment. Clasping her hands together in joy, she smiled wide. "Do you really think so?" she said wondrously. "I haven't the time to wash up, and it's dreadfully late. Shall we make our leave?"

"If it pleases you," he said shortly.

He barely had the energy for such things, but he hadn't the heart to disappoint her. He'd felt so terribly about earlier, about how he'd allowed her to face embarrassment and indignity alone. She was a young maiden of three-and-ten. She hadn't known any better, he told himself. And he'd promised her . . . gave an oath before the very gods to legitimize their union. It will only sow further chaos in the realm, he realized.

His thoughts had been useless. Rhaenyra was in her own world there . . . smiling and beautiful. She turned to him, took a breath, and said, straining for a normal tone, "Let us go now, my love. The aging night grows later still."

He watched her pull open the double-doors, and then whisper something to Ser Erryk. The world was hazy to him now. Stemming from either his lack of rest, or his ailing health, it mattered little now. All he knew was the tiny, soft hand which clasped his own, and the pale-silver hair billowing in front of him as she led them with bouncing steps down a long corridor. He'd grown increasingly delirious as he lost all notion of their location. Perhaps he'd too much wine to drink, he mused. Such thoughts had a tinge of self-deprecation in them, and that was queerly funny.

Daemon chuckled. Rhaenyra turned her head and smiled brightly. The night had suddenly become interesting, he realized. And with that thought, he gave her hand a squeeze and whispered something hazily. Something about his forbidden love for her, he guessed.

A faint smell of jasmine lingered in the air. Her smile only grew wider, and he saw her lips part. Words flowed, but he forgot to process them. His own lips spoke something as well, and she suddenly laughed, beautifully if one could. Her very sound spurred him further, and suddenly he was leading her.

He grinned, though his fatigue was still evident. They traversed the empty halls like that, hand in hand and together in such a lonely world. Their pace had quickened, Rhaenyra grew bolder still. Somewhere along the way, Daemon had even miraculously acquired a flask of wine, though he couldn't remember where. He had a penchant for such things, he realized. It really didn't matter, and its warm sweetness only heightened his joy. He'd sooner begun to wonder how he'd made it past Ser Erryk like this. Surely, he knew something was off, and yet he did nothing . . . It is good to be regent, he thought amusingly.

They'd almost danced their way to the godswood. It was a fine art to walk with drink in one hand and a handsy, young maiden in the other.

Then it was there, a single smattering of red dashing against a dark, starry night sky. If someone looked toward them in this moment, in this strange, faint light under the pale of the waxing moon, they'd almost certainly see nothing. They were invisible then, as they stretched their legs through the carefully laid out pathways betwixt cottonwood trees and the like. Daemon smelt the crispness of the wood, tinged ever so slightly by the saltwater of Blackwater. He relaxed his fingers around Rhaenyra's side as they walked, with her embracing him wholly in return. The distant weirwood tree seemed to grimace at them from far off, bemused by their very presence in this late hour.

He drew a normal breath, and then pressed his nose into her luminous mane of silver. He inhaled deeply, as if her very scent could heal his deep wounds. Her own expression by moonlight was one of unabashed contentment—a good sign he'd not been imagining her serenity.

They reached the end of the wood, standing beneath the strange weirwood as its blood-red leaves dangled over them. Only the carefully-tended grass, silvered by moonlight, spread between them and the hedges and cottonwood trees of the garden. Rhaenyra then dropped down to lay beneath the tree. He'd remembered, eerily, the last time they'd laid together before this very weirwood. It had been so long ago . . .

He fell to rest beside her, and now there he was, their hands touching as they gazed up at the cloudless night sky. The many stars were clear tonight, and they shimmered brightly amidst the dark heavens above. Long silver hair cascaded over one another. Hands clutched in love. He could turn on her and kiss her full upon the lips now, he thought. He wanted to tell her so many things, here alone in the godswood, and yet his innumerable words fell out of mind with his quickening desire.

He turned his head to face her. As Rhaenyra glanced back at him wide-eyed, chest heaving with quick, anticipating breaths, Daemon suddenly realized his flask of wine was empty. He'd felt oddly unsettled now, under her lucid gaze, and remembering, with a vague clarity the very forbiddances of their affair.

Rhaenyra laughed then, which surprised him. It was a brief, womanly laugh—a giggle almost. Then he felt the world spin, and suddenly he was upon her. Their noses touched, her breath quickened expectantly under his gaze. The now erratic rise and fall of her breast matched her rising lust. In the shadow of the night, he saw her mouth open ever so slightly to utter his name. What was it about the way she said his name? Slowly, he'd conceptualized that very thought, and a long moment passed before he'd done so.

His hold on his flask loosened. His left-hand tore at the grass, and the other was pinned over her head. His turn to laugh, helplessly—amorously even. And then, not long after, he stopped to gaze deeply into her wonderous plum-coloured eyes he so dearly loved.

The world went dark as his mouth met hers furiously. Her fingers locked and twisted in his wild silver mane, her own mouth gaping open receptively to receive him. Tongue against tongue, he tasted her hunger, her desire, and it stoked the smouldering coals of flame within him to burst out with an intense passion. He'd little energy for such things, but his mind was going, and with it all the memories and worries which plagued them.

He ripped at her silk gown and immediately set upon her freed breasts with his tongue, capturing a swollen, pink nipple to suckle it. She gasped, as her needy fingers clawed the back of his dark silk tunic until they'd found a pathway underneath. He felt her nails draw painful lines on his back, and it only increased his own arousal. He rose to take her earlobe hungrily in his mouth, suckled it to force a moan, and then bit her until he tasted blood.

The whole world fell apart then. His entire hold on reality collapsed. Somehow, they'd ended splayed upon the glittering godswood grass, stark naked and unabashed. Dark Sister, unsheathed and ever-watchful, glimmered in the darkness as it jutted out from the ground. And then Rhaenyra was above him, riding his sex as if he were her very dragon. She was inexperienced, but it didn't matter. The world was hers, as she moaned loudly and ground herself into him, splitting her bloody with the half-moon above casting a silver light upon her glorious hair.

And in the finality of their coupling, he ultimately understood what he'd wondered about all this time. Illuminated only by moonlight and the twinkling stars above, Daemon found the deepest clarity as she screamed out his name, crying out with her climax. Turning over, he reached as far as she'd allowed him, grunting with his own release as he sheathed himself into the deepest folds of her flesh with quick, desperate thrusts. Rapture was his feeling, and his thought obliterated. Such things were needless in this moment.

Beneath the godswood, Daemon writhed as he spent every last bit of himself inside of her. Her eyes shut tightly, her mouth formed soundless words. He was left limp upon her quivering form, lost to the waking world itself, perhaps only recognizing his very name.

He heard her whispering it, over and over. And after a while, she rolled out from under him, and he found himself on his back looking upwards into the endless skies above. She curled herself lovingly into him, banishing the cool autumn air with her generous heat.

He felt almost feverish in that moment, collapsed as he was with a naked girl sprawled over him. Whether it was from the wine, his illness, the euphoria from his great release, or the sudden realization of what he'd just done, it mattered little.

All which mattered to him now was his young niece, Rhaenyra, who'd given herself wholly to him.